


I'd Rather Have A Bottle In Front Of Me Than A Frontal Lobotomy

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Rocket and Bucky Walk into a Bar, crack and fluff, love and rockets - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: “Hey, pal! I’m gonna need that arm!”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tisfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/gifts).



> Rocket and Bucky meet in a bar.  
> Thats it. That's the fic.  
> Thanks to the Squid Squad for holding my hand

Bucky lets out a quiet little groan and sits on a clump of grass just clear of the wreckage. He shifts his assault rifle so it isn’t poking into his bruised ribs and rubs his flesh hand over his face.  
_Ugh. Thank fuck that’s over._  
He hurts everywhere. Plasma rifle blasts, burns from glowing blue hydra looking shit and a kick to the head from a… whatever that thing was had left him battered and bruised.  
Steve was already on his feet, issuing orders and organising debriefings and generally acting like half the team hadn’t been recently annihilated by the big ugly blue fucker, and then yanked back into existence by the little blue dame with anger management issues.  
Bucky however is running on own-brand superserum rather than the premium shit wound around Steve’s DNA, and is in sore need of about a thousand aspirin and a week long nap.  
He rubs the back of his head and it comes away bloody. He’s pretty sure it’s his, since it’s red and all.  
“Looks nasty.”  
glances up and sees Clint stumbling over, helped along by some guy wearing a torn red leather overcoat.  
He raises his vibranium hand. “Hey Barton. Good shooting.”  
Clint gives him a proud grin. “Right between the eyes. Thank’s for blocking that hit with your… uh… face.”  
Bucky snorts. “Yeah, let’s never do that again,” he nods to the new guy. “Who’s the fashion victim?”  
“Hey!” the new guy interjects, looking wounded. “I’m Starlord.”  
“What the hell kind of name is that?”  
“Peter Quill, Bucky Barnes,” Clint waves a hand between them.  
“And you make fun of my name?!”  
“Eh,” Bucky shrugs. “Fair point.”  
Quill dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Well, since we saved the galaxy and all, I figure we need to get drunk.”  
“Really, really drunk,” Clint agrees.  
Bucky looks at the pair, battered and bruised and in Quill’s case still slightly on fire.  
He nods emphatically. “Yeah, I’m in.”

‘The Boot of Jemiah’ the place was called. Bucky didn’t much care for the origin story, though Quill insisted on sharing it. Really, his only concern was whether it offered a range of beverages that could potentially make you go blind.  
They slide onto the weird looking stools lining the bar and Quill waves to the bright yellow skinned guy behind the counter, who pours them each a glass of something sticky and fluorescent, while offering thanks for saving the galaxy. Quill puffs up a little at the praise, spinning some sort of yarn while Clint manages to hold his tongue. Bucky unshoulders his sniper rifle and the MGL. The damn things do the job but weigh a ton. He props them up against the bar and slumps in his seat, poking at his drink dubiously.  
Clint knocks back his shot in one go, and doubles over in a coughing fit.  
Bucky pats him on the back. “You alright, pal?”  
Clint wheezes and gives him a thumbs up, and finally straightens up and taps the bar.  
“Same again,” he rasps at the yellow guy, who pours him another before offering the bottle to Bucky, who shakes his head.  
“The future,” Bucky sighs, lifting the glass to his lips. “Green dames and talking trees. Fuck.” He takes a sip of the luminous alcohol.  
It’s… not that bad. Sharp, with a buzz like licking a battery and a resinous, woody finish. Kind of like licking a log cabin doused in gasoline. He takes another sip.  
“Yeah but it’s not the future,” Clint hiccups, raising his glass to his mouth and missing. “It’s now, just… now someplace else.”  
Quill snorts. “Didn’t know you were the philosopher type.”  
Clint waves his glass in the rough direction of Quill. “I don’t got superpowers or a magic hammer that grows bigger when you rub it or… or super… like. Healing stuff.” He takes a swig of liquor. “Spaceships and aliens and all that shit flyin’ around me, I just got a buncha sticks an’ a string from the Paleolithic era.”  
Bucky nods. “Takes some getting used to. I mean, the wild colours I’m okay with, it’s the talking plants that get me nervous. I mean, where does that leave you when it comes to salad?”  
“So long as I can still eat pizza, I don’t care,” Clint mumbles. “You think Domino's deliver this end of the universe?’

The barroom door bursts open, and the green dame with the terrifying lightsaber things that Bucky had seen glimpses of during the battle comes striding in. She comes straight up to the bar and stands in front of Quill, hands on her hips, head cocked in that posture that screams ‘Your life partner is seriously pissed. Beg. Beg for mercy’. Bucky has seen it once or twice. Luckily so has Quill, who leaps to his feet and starts laying on the charm.  
The dame fights back a smile, and seems to find Quill’s begging the endearing side of pathetic. She beckons him to follow, and he hurries out the bar after her, giving Bucky an apologetic wave.  
“Well, looks like he’s gettin’ his salad tossed,” Bucky remarks.  
Clint doesn’t answer, passed out with his face mashed onto the counter. Some guy behind him cackles though, and Bucky sighs and moves Clint into a position where he’s less likely to choke to death on fumes. The change in position on his seat reveals his arm to the cackling guy, who lets out a little gasp.  
Seriously, there’s a girl running around with freaking antennae who can read your mind, and a blue guy with some sort of metal fin sticking out the top of his head, but no, Bucky is the weird looking one around here. Sheesh.  
“Hey, pal! I’m gonna need that arm!”

Bucky turns, ready to give the snickering asshole his best Death Glare or maybe just beat him up a little, but there’s no one there.  
“Down here, genius,” the asshole growls.  
Bucky scans the bar, but no one is paying him attention, so he drops his gaze.  
There is a… ferret climbing onto Quills abandoned stool.  
“Hey, how ya doin’?” it asks, though from the low growl Bucky guesses it’s a he.  
The… creature is about the size and shape of a human child, but covered in dark fur. It has a pointed, ferrety face and a long bushy tail that sweeps the floor. He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit and shouldering a gun taller than he is, along with some sort of cannon that he carefully places on the stool next to him before turning to the yellow guy and ordering a drink.  
Bucky stares as the ferret-man-thing drops the massive gun he’s carrying on the counter. He gives his shoulder a massage and mutters a thanks as the yellow brings a glass of something sticky and blue.  
He raises his glass to Bucky and grins, displaying rows of sharp little teeth.  
After a moment of hesitation Bucky lifts his own glass. Clint lets out a little whinnying sound.  
“Nice piece you got there,” the ferret-man-thing gestures towards Bucky with his glass.  
He looks down at his arm. Yeah, of course he wants to talk about the arm. Bucky got his ass handed to him by a girl with _metal plates_ in her _head_ but no, his arm is the weird thing around here.  
“Yeah, laugh it up,” Bucky growls. “Lets all have a good guffaw over the poor bastard who got experimented on by mad scientists.” He uses his metal hand to give the weasel the finger. “Y’know I didn’t actually get a say in looking like this.”  
The ferret-man looks disgruntled, his ears flicking back for a moment, then jutting forward as he pointedly starts to unclasp the shoulder strap of his little orange jumpsuit.  
Bucky waves a hand in panic. “Hey, no, wait a minute pal! No need for any… weird shit.”  
The ferret-man shrugs the jumpsuit down his shoulders, turning his back to Bucky so he can see the metal pieces embedded in his spine.  
“Illegal genetic and cybernetic enhancements, more metal than flesh going on in there” he mutters, fastening the shoulder strap up again. “They didn’t ask me first either.”  
Bucky sucks air between his teeth and shakes his head. After a moment he holds up his glass to the unlucky little bastard.  
“To being fucked up,” he says with forced bravado.  
The furball nods ruefully and raises his glass, clinking it against Bucky’s. “To being fucked up.”  
He knocks back the contents and calls the yellow barman over for another round.  
“So a piece like that’s gotta have a story behind it,” the ferrety thing holds out his glass for the yellow.  
“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, taking a sip of his refilled glass and feeling a little less prickly. “Vibranium alloy knocked up by the Wakandans after Stark blasted the old Soviet made number off me.” Bucky twists his wrist and the plates shift and resettle. “You must’ve seen Stark? Billionaire? Red and gold metal suit, never shuts up?”  
The… Racoon?? Sits up a little and his eyes light up. “Billionaire, huh? So the guy’s loaded?”  
Bucky shakes his head. “He’s also a genius engineer and weapons designer, leave the guy alone okay?”  
The Racoon shrugs. “Eh, fine.” He takes a swig of blue liquor. “Wasn’t asking about the arm, though.”  
He points to the Barrett propped up against the bar.  
Oh.

Bucky picks up the sniper rifle and swivels in his seat to face the Racoon. “Well, this here is a Barrett M82A1. A recoil-operated, semi-automatic sniper rifle, fitted with scope mount. Effective at four thousand yards, an essential piece of kit if you wanna blow someone's head off, but don’t particularly want to be in the same zip code at the time.”  
The Racoon makes an intrigued noise and holds out his paws, and Bucky hands over the weapon, watching in slightly morbid fascination as he pats at the weapon, running his paws over the fluted barrel.  
“Nice,” the Racoon hands it back, and picks up the massive weapon he had put down on the stool next to him. “Now this here is a weapon of my own design. I call it the Hadron Enforcer.”  
He hands it over to Bucky who needs both hands to wield the X shaped device. He can’t even begin to figure out how it works. there’s two handles, with some sort of trigger in their grips. Point and squeeze from the look of it. It’s hefty, and he can’t help but be impressed how the little guy can even lift it, let alone operate it.  
“Well ain't that something. What’s it do?” he asks, handing it back.  
The Racoon takes it with a proud smile. “Demolition.”  
Bucky lets out a sharp laugh and takes another sip of liquor before picking up the MGL.  
“Oh, you’ll like this. Milkor multiple grenade launcher.” He slaps the chamber. “Six shots, effective at eight hundred meters. Makes a hell of a bang.”  
The Racoon makes grabby hands, and Bucky passes it over with a chortle.  
“Oh, yeah,” the Racoon sighs. “Now this is something a guy could have fun with.”  
He sets it on the bar. “Quick to reload?”  
Bucky nods. “Never need more than one shot, so not been an issue so far.”  
“See, I never go anywhere without my Laser Cannon.” The Racoon picks up his weapon left on the bar, it looks like a cross between a beetle and a shotgun. “Some of the finest equipment for killing people you don’t much like that I’ve ever had the pleasure of handling.”  
Bucky slides his hand around the grip and holds it up to his eye, looking down the sight at the barroom floor. He cocks it and the front extends forward and expands outwards.  
“Oooh, I like it,” Bucky chuckles. “You like your cannons, huh? What do you do in close quarters?”  
“I try to avoid them,” the Racoon mutters dryly. “I’ve got this big lunk that follows me around. Good company, extra muscle. He’s mostly just drags me into trouble though. But,” the Racoon shrugs. “What can I say, I’m fond of the idiot.”  
Bucky snorts into his glass. “Yeah, I got one of them too. Nothing but trouble but…” he sighs. “Wouldn’t be without him, y’know?”  
“Yeah, I know,” the Racoon agrees. “Still. Little guy like me, don’t wanna be getting up close and personal.” He takes another swig of liquor. “What about you, I bet you’ve got a dozen knives hidden in your underwear and shit, right?”  
Bucky snorts and pulls a knife out of a concealed sheath at his hip. “Gerber Mark 2 double-edged spear point.”  
The Racoon takes it, sitting back on his stool and tossing the knife from hand to hand. “Mmm. Well-balanced. But I still prefer to do my killing from really fucking far away.”  
Bucky takes the knife back and slips it back into its sheath. After a moment's thought he reaches for the concealed pouch at his waistband and pulls out a pair of small, silver balls.  
“Here,” he holds them out, dropping them carefully into the Racoons outstretched paws.  
He makes an intrigued noise. “Ooh, I bet these make a hell of a pop!”  
“Seems like they’d be your kind of thing, just set the timer,” Bucky demonstrates the simple twist timer on each device. “Then roll them towards whatever, or whoever, you want exploding.”  
The Racoon grins at him. “I can have these?”  
“Sure thing, pal.”  
Well then, let me buy you another drink..?” he gives Bucky an expectant look.  
“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”  
The racoon hold out his paw. “Rocket. Pleased to meet ya, Barnes.”  
“Pleasures all mine, pal.”

The yellow brings them another round of drinks, and Rocket insists that Bucky try an oily-looking green liquor.  
“Trust me, Barnes. It’ll put hairs on your chest!” he cackles.  
He half expects to taste mint, or something grassy, but the liquor has a deep, sour tang with a mineral aftertaste. He doesn’t like it as much as the fluorescent stuff, but sipping it sends a warmth spreading through his chest that he hasn’t felt since before Hitler invaded Poland, and he’d gotten his first taste of bathtub gin. the stuff had burned going down and burned even more coming back up again ten minutes later.  
“Hm. What do they put in this shit, battery acid?” he mutters.  
“Just for colour,” Rocket answers with a smirk before sitting back on his stool. “So, what d’you do all day? You a vigilante or something?”  
“Nah,” Bucky snorts. “Guess I’m between jobs. Used to work for the army, then...” he shrugs his left shoulder and the metal plates in his arm realign. “This happened. Got passed around a bit, whoever had the most money, you know? Now they’re all dead and…” he takes a sip of liquor, savouring the way the sour hit makes his mouth twist. “Got something of a time bomb in my head, don’t know for sure when it’s gonna start ticking.”  
Rocket nods. “You ever considered being a bounty hunter? The pay ain’t so bad, you get to travel. And shoot people, that’s always fun.”  
Bucky glances at him. “Why, you hiring?”  
Rocket shrugs, holding a paw splayed open. “I’d consider splitting the bounty.”  
“Oh, so generous,” Bucky snorts.  
“Hey! I’d be willing to give you twenty percent!” Rocket snickers to himself and Bucky reaches over and gives him a gentle shove, nearly knocking him off his stool.  
Rocket clings to the bar and rights himself, calling Bucky an asshole in a low tone that’s more fond than irritated.  
“Thank’s for the offer, but I’m gonna have to pass. I doubt Steve would approve of me running off to be a gun for hire.”  
“Yeah? Who’s Steve?”  
As if on cue the barroom door flings open, smacking into the wall and rebounding.  
“Bucky?!”  
Bucky sighs and points a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Steve.”

Bucky spins around on his stool and gives Steve his best smile.  
Unfortunately the decades of cryo-freezing and being a brainwashed assassin haven’t been kind, and his best smile is a rueful little twist at the corner of his mouth. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make Steve hesitate.  
Barroom lighting isn’t the most flattering, designed to obfuscate rather than highlight. Even so, Steve looks _terrible._  
His suit is torn and singed, the cuts and burns on his face and arms already healing under the thick layer of grime. He looks exhausted, like he’s been running on fumes for too long. Bucky feels a twinge of guilt.  
“You want a drink?” he asks, waving at the bar.  
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, where the hell have you been?” Steve snaps.  
“Ain’t been nowhere,” Bucky holds up his hands, trying to be placating. “Bonding with my team mates after the mission.”  
He pats Clint on the shoulder, who sits bolt upright. “I’m fine!” Clint announces to the room before slumping forward again and letting out a single loud snore.  
Bucky pats the bar encouragingly. “Come on, take a seat. Have a drink.”  
Steve folds his arms across his chest and glares. Not the Captain America glare, the Steve Rogers glare, the one with all the eyebrows.  
“You _left_ ,” Steve growls.  
Then something terrible happens. His shoulders slump. “You left. I turned around and you were gone.”  
Bucky drops his glass on the counter and slides out of his seat, taking a quick step towards Steve. “You were busy.”  
Steve shakes his head. “Not a word, just up and left. I thought something had happened to you.”  
Bucky puts a placating hand on Steve’s arm. “It’s alright, we’re alright.”  
Steve shakes him off, taking a step back and putting his hands on his hips. He cocks his head and clenches his jaw.

“Oh, that’s not a good sign,” Rocket mutters and climbs down from his stool. He grabs Clint by the hem of his torn jacket and gives it a tug. “Come on, sharpshooter.”  
Clint sits up again. “What?!”  
Rocket gives his jacket another tug. “You ever seen couples fight? We stick around we’ll get dragged into the middle of it. You want that?”  
That seems to clear the fog in Clints eyes, he wipes the sticky, liquored trail of drool off his cheek and peers down at Rocket.  
“Are you my conscience?” he asks slowly.  
Rocket twitches his ears irritably. “Sure, why not. I’m guess we don’t talk much, huh?”  
Clint pats him on the head. “You’re fuzzy.”  
“Take it off, or I’ll break it off,” Rocket growls.  
Clint snatches his fingers away from the sharp little teeth. “Who’s fighting?”  
Rocket points to Steve, his hands balled into fists and resting on his hips. “Barnes and his significant other are squaring up for a fight.”  
“Shit,” Clint mutters. “We gotta hide.”  
They shuffle down the bar, far enough away to avoid getting pulled into the fight and asked for their input, but close enough so they don’t actually miss anything.

“I can’t believe you just took off like that!” Steve snarls.  
Bucky huffs. “You were going around being Captain America, what was I supposed to do? Sit and bleed a while until you had time for me?”  
Wrong thing to say. Steve tenses up and looks about ready to explode.  
“Steve,” Bucky says softly.  
Steve’s features fall. “I watched you die,” he utters weakly. “Thanos and that gauntlet. He snapped his fingers and you… You were gone.”  
The whole bar falls silent.  
And yeaah, that hadn’t been good. The big ugly blue fucker with his golden glove. One second there, the next gone. Then nothing, a terrible endless nothing before he was back on the battlefield. And Steve, out of the blast range, had stared at him, his face twisted up with something Bucky didn’t even have a name for.  
He shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, but I came back?”  
Steve shakes his head. “And what about next time, huh? What if there’s no time crystal? What if you just _die_.”  
“It’s the risk we take Steve. All of us.”  
Steve bows his head. “I thought it was bad when I watched you fall from the train. I tried to reach you. But this? It happened so fast, I couldn’t…”  
Bucky risks a step forward and reaches out to Steve, resting a hand on his arm.  
“I can’t keep watching you die, Buck.”  
Bucky freezes. His vibranium arm shifts and resettles like the ruffling of feathers.  
“Oh, just you hold on there, you little shit!” he hisses under his breath.  
Steve looks startled.  
“You can’t watch me die? You can’t… Well let me tell you something pal,” Bucky snarls. “You got nothing on me!”

Steve recoils, but Bucky keeps a firm grip on his arm.  
“You can’t watch me die? _Tell me about it_ , pal!” Bucky tugs Steve’s arm, bringing him closer. “You got any idea how many times I seen you _this close_ to dying?” he holds his finger and thumb a scant inch apart in Steve’s face. “Letting me beat you senseless on the Helicarrier? Dropping into the Potomac?”  
“You remember that?” Steve whispers.  
“Yeah, I remember that! You know how many times your Ma sent me off to fetch Father Murphy to come read you the last rites? How many winters I spent with you in bed with pneumonia waiting to see if this was the one you couldn’t shake?”  
Bucky’s hand is shaking, wrapped around Steve’s wrist. “I’ve been watching you die since nineteen twenty four, you asshole.”  
Steve lets out a soft, pained sound and reaches up to grab the front of Bucky’s tac suit, digging his fingers into the leather. “You remember.” It’s not a question.  
“Yeah, I remember,” Bucky nods. “And I was pissed at you when you showed up all… Serumed up. Dumb punk, letting Howard Stark and some mad scientist experiment on you, like you’re Frankenstein's monster?”  
“Erskine wasn’t mad,” Steve says weakly.  
Bucky ignores him. “I thought to myself ‘well at least he’s healthy! At least he’s safe.’ But no, I don’t even get that, because you march into enemy territory on foot?! You pitch the Valkyrie into the fucking ocean? You throw yourself out of planes without a parachute?”  
Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s suit. “Bucky,” he breathes.  
“So don’t you tell me you can’t bear to watch me die,” Bucky growls. “Because you’re not even close, pal!”  
Steve lets out a soft breath and tugs Bucky towards him, crashing their mouths together.

“Oh-ho!” Rocket laughs, clapping his hands together. “Get it, Barnes!”  
Clints sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles as the rest of the bar whoops and whistles for a minute before losing interest and getting back to drinking.  
“Nat is going to be so pissed she missed it,” Clint chuckles. “She had fifty bucks on Barnes making the first move. Cap is full of surprises, eh?”  
Rocket scratches his chin and looks at the pair. “Don’t they need to breathe at some point?”  
Clint reaches across the bar and snags his glass of liquor. “You do what you gotta, conscience, but I’m gonna drink this purple stuff and pretend what’s happening is not happening, okay?”  
Rocket snorts and raps on the bar for another drink.

Bucky pulls back, even though Steve has his fingers curled up in his hair. Steve lets out a little mutter of complaint, and Bucky gives an apologetic kiss to the corner of his mouth.  
“Okay, so…” he lets out a huff. “I figure we got two options here. One, we go find somewhere a bit more private, hell I don’t care where, and we bang each others brains out.”  
Steve lets out a little whine, fingers tightening in Bucky’s hair.  
Bucky gives him a crooked smile. “And then one of us will freak out and bail. And I’m not saying we wouldn’t figure things out eventually, I’ve been half gone on you since I was fourteen years old.” He strokes his hands down Steve’s sides. “But it’s been a hell of a day, and neither of us thinking straight.”  
Steve huffs and presses their foreheads together. “What about the second option?”  
Bucky lowers his hands, resting them on Steve’s hips. “We sit ourselves down at the bar and have a drink.” He strokes his thumb across Steve’s hipbone. “How long’s it been since we just sat in a bar and talked to each other?”  
Steve lets out a slow breath. “A long, long time.”  
Bucky smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

“You know, the drinks are on the house?” Rocket mutters as Bucky leads Steve over to the bar, pulling out a stool and calling to the yellow guy.  
“Yeah, well. It’s the thought that counts, right?” Clint takes a sip of his purple liquor and coughs, smacking his chest.  
Rocket watches Steve accept a glass of something navy and sparkling, taking a sip and giving an approving nod at the yellow, who goes tangerine around the ears and scuttles off down the bar.  
Rocket lets out a soft ‘Pfft’ as Bucky curls his arm around Steve’s waist.  
“Aww, conscience,” Clint says with a smile, and reaches over to scratch him between the ears.  
Rocket growls and ducks his head, his ears flattening. Clint rubs a thumb across his patterned fur, and his ears slowly creep up.  
“Left,” he mumbles. “Oh yeah, that’s the spot.”


End file.
